


Painting a Picture

by Blood_Stained_Fingers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cunning, Dark, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Machiavellianism, Magical Portraits, Manipulation, Multi, Period-Typical Sexism, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, The Long Game, Violence, Voldemort being Voldemort, spite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blood_Stained_Fingers/pseuds/Blood_Stained_Fingers
Summary: Voldemort had forgotten about the destructiveness of a leaky faucet. Potter bled frustration and grief, stray thoughts that he howled into the echo chamber of that empty head of his. And like two tin cans linked by string, Voldemort could hear them all. Let the faucet drip, drip, drip… less immediate damage, but more destructive overtime as the damp continues to spread. All of Potter's little secrets and desires dripped down Voldemort’s empty, bottomless gullet.If Harry Potter was so keen to martyr himself, then he would martyr himself for Lord Voldemort’s campaign.Lord Voldemort always shaped the narrative. And so, he commissioned a portrait.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 22
Kudos: 182





	Painting a Picture

**Author's Note:**

> Forget all you know about Harry Potter portraiture law - I took a massive dump all over it. This took over my life for three days, so I gift to you my suffering.
> 
> Its nearly 3am here, please forgive the mistakes that will have evaded me.

A portrait should not be awakened until the subject of the painting is deceased.

A portrait should not be awakened until the subject of the painting is deceased.

A cardinal rule. A natural law.

 _Should_ not be. Of course, that did not mean that they _could_ not be.

Of course, it was not done. It was unheard of.

Not allowing the subject to educate and shape their painted self was barbaric, and the spells and memories bound into the ink could only truly function when the subject died.

So unheard of that it was considered impossible for a portrait to be functioning if the subject was still alive.

And purebloods believed portraits should and ought to function as well as they themselves had in their lives.

Briefly in his twenties, Lord Voldemort had experimented with this, of course. Fascinating, as it was. There was a bind in the magic that a subject would pour into their portraits, their memories, their personalities. Something that only broke properly when they died.

There were those that tried to break it before their death, but it was not successful. At least not through traditional means. Voldemort had seen portraits unable to assume their identities, never truly wake and some remained as lifeless and dull as a muggle painting.

It was fascinating, and a small distraction from his quest for immortality, but Lord Voldemort had never done anything idly or without purpose.

It was as he watched Abraxas sweat in his own frame, fearing his Lord’s displeasure even after being in the ground for many years, that an idea came to him.

And finally, a use for a small bit of strange and arcane knowledge about magical portraiture.

There never had been a situation that Voldemort had not been able to control, except Harry Potter.

A mere boy had helped get his best Death Eaters sent to Azkaban, had destroyed a prophecy retaining both their fates and only at the cost of his useless Godfather.

And now Voldemort pondered his future. His winning of the war.

He pondered Harry Potter.

Voldemort had been hasty and foolish. Had forgotten what it was like to be hungry.

Even with his thirteen years of bodiless agony, he had returned as powerful and as arrogant as he had been at his fall.

Voldemort had forgotten what it was like when he was younger. To want something so bitterly that he would do anything to get it, even if it meant waiting patiently and silently.

He had exploited the mental connection to Potter, but not truly utilised it. The boy may be stupid, but he was extraordinarily lucky.

Lord Voldemort, for all his great attributes, was not lucky. He was hard working. He was brilliant. He made his path.

He was successful, because he was brilliant and hard working. And he had forgotten that.

Forgotten that insatiable drive. The one which had driven him to learn about magical portraiture, because it may come in use some day.

He had forgotten about the destructiveness of a leaky faucet. Potter bled frustration and grief, stray thoughts that he howled into the echo chamber of that empty head of his. And like two tin cans linked by string, Voldemort could hear them all.

But Voldemort had ignored them. His first plan had been to lure him with false memories, reel the boy into providing the prophecy and his death in one swift blow.

Why, Lord Voldemort wondered, had he turned on the tap? That was a Gryffindor action. Arrogant and stupid.

Let the faucet drip, drip, drip… less immediate damage, but more destructive overtime as the damp continues to spread.

It was how he had remained ahead his whole life, but Lord Voldemort had forgotten.

And so, he listened.

And with every drip of knowledge, Voldemort knew Harry a little more.

An angry child. He was exhausted. Desperate.

Grieving.

Self-depreciating to an extreme degree.

Guilty.

And despite Lord Voldemort’s return being public knowledge now, Harry was still resentful of having not being believed for a year, angry and humiliated by the media again and again.

All of his little secrets and desires dripped down Voldemort’s empty, bottomless gullet.

The Dark Lord knew the boy better than he knew himself.

Snatches of the prophecy filtered down. Not complete and not helpful yet, but with time, Voldemort knew it would be yielded to him.

Abraxas shifted again, the slightest sign of his booted feet the only give away. Voldemort smiled at him, let his unnerving eyes glance away to admire the strong gilded frame that housed the former Lord Malfoy. He was much more capable than his son, and practically a genius in comparison to his grandson.

The weakest Black daughter ruined the Malfoy line. Voldemort was glad to have suggested it to Cygnus, if only to spite his horrid wife.

Druella Rosier had always been a pretentious woman, even at school. Engaged to Cygnus Black from a young age, she had thought herself above everyone else. Even though Walburga Black was quick to dissuade her of said notion very quickly. She considered herself so pure-blooded that even the presence of Tom Riddle in his own ancestor’s house offended her.

Cygnus, her future husband, could not curb her tongue. He knew of Tom Riddle’s secret name, the monster in the chamber under Tom’s control and _still_ could not bring her to heel.

Druella had called him a mudblood at school, hissed under her breath and the music of a Slug-club Christmas party that Cygnus had brough her to. Tom had broken all her fingers in his grip in one sharp twist. She barely managed to stifle her pained cry, red painted lips rolling inwards as she squealed and tried to stifle it.

The music was too loud, the crowd was too drunk to hear her.

Old Sluggie had even charmed the candles himself, it seemed, as matching their caster’s state of boorish drunkenness, they had begun to drip wax down onto the floor and guests’ heads. The undersecretary to the Minister himself had a large globulous bird shit like stain on his shoulder.

Druella tugged her hand, big tears creasing the corners of her heavy-lidded eyes. She was quite pretty when she was in pain, Tom noted.

“Now, now. It is not the part of a pure-blooded lady to make a fuss,” he commented lazily, examining her blunt square fingers against his long, elegant ones.

Darling Druella’s were already beginning to purple.

She gasped wetly at him, so angry and pained, she was speechless. Tom vowed then and there that she would pay. She would pay dearly for that _hated,_ untrue word. He smiled at her charmingly, reeled her in against him to carry on the slow, swaying dance.

Skilled as he was, Tom could not spin this spider’s silk into gold. It was beneficial to know what you couldn’t win as much as what you could.

Druella was one of the few pure-blooded girls at the party. No one actually brought their betrothed with them to the Slug-Club parties.

You brought some low-quality bint who wouldn’t fight you at the end of the evening. But Druella fancied herself one of the boys. She was right too. Tom knew a warrior when he saw one. Could see it in her eyes, and the way she looked down at everyone.

Including her soon-to-be husband, who was having to have Tom reign in his fiancé for him.

Stupid girl should have been a Gryffindor.

Druella craved fire, blood and fury. Lord Voldemort could have given it to her. One solider is as good as the rest. He had always fancied a husband and wife pair of hunting dogs.

So, he decided, as his hand scraped down the small of her back, that he would have her daughter. Her firstborn.

Druella would be the good little broodmare and her child would blaze in glory only Voldemort could bring. Whilst Druella would wrinkle and diminish in a role she was never truly born to.

If she was delivered of a son, Tom would take him to war and ensure he died a broken man. And when she has a girl… why not the same?

He would have the daughter love him, adore his every word. He pressed his head against Druella’s blond curls. Felt her shuddering pain as he twisted her broken fingers. Her wandwork would never be the same again.

Cygnus smiled at him from across the room, toasting a glass as he talked with what looked like a Weasley. 

( _Cygnus will prove himself less and less valuable when he returned to the common room that night with half his lip hanging off._

_Neither Druella nor Cygnus made it to the hospital wing. Weasleys may be blood traitors but there was no way Cygnus would come away from that cleanly._

_\--and for once, Druella did what Cygnus told her to do. Sit down and shut up.)_

Lord Voldemort was of course delighted with the news that Druella and Cygnus had three daughters. Druella’s spirit in Black warriors.

Walburga and Orion had just had their second son too. Walburga had sneered at his suggestion she may have more. Funded his war efforts instead with gold. She had glowered down at the squirming lump in the crib. “Tom, I have delivered an heir and a spare. They are no longer my problem. Come back when they’re older and they will aid you in your goal.”

Druella, unable to have more children, comparatively was a failure.

Lord Voldemort paid the small family a visit. He did not expect either of them to join the cause and fight. Cygnus would follow Orion and Walburga’s lead and Druella hated him, nor was she not fit for his service. She could not clench her hand into a fist, but how he could see she wanted to.

Cygnus had a small amount of money that Orion did not control, which Voldemort would take. He did wonder how Cygnus had even managed to impregnate his wife three times.

So, Voldemort decided to visit for his due. For the smell of melting wax and liquor at that Christmas party so many years ago. Druella’s firstborn.

Her three daughters entered the room. Bellatrix, the eldest at ten was already gazing at him enraptured. Andromeda, the middle child looked greatly put upon and Narcissa, the youngest at five, with blonde ringlets and a doll tucked under her arm.

And what a set they made, he couldn’t help himself, “What beautiful daughters you have, Druella. Almost a complementary group to darling Wallburga’s boys.” He picked up his teacup, taking a small sip, “It is a shame she has only had two children, but then I suppose she _completed_ her duty.”

Druella sat primly in her chair, doffed her head at the backhanded compliment with a sour smile. Cygnus took no offense on behalf of his wife.

Voldemort considered it fortunate that Bellatrix was the eldest, as she looked at him in awe. She was by far the prettiest, and the tell-tale signs of rebellion kicking in already. She clearly the jewel in the crown for her parents.

Andromeda, he could smell trouble on her from the other side of the room. She looked like a Black, but inside was all Druella, lofty and cruel. She looked at him with a disinterested boredom. She clearly had better things to be doing. Voldemort was too amused to be offended. He saw Druella’s ruin in that one. Bellatrix and Andromeda looked rather similar, but he could see a sturdiness in Andromeda that was not in Bellatrix, even at their young ages.

Andromeda would be useful were she to stay in line, but Andromeda would come to her own conclusions and be stronger for them. Should she stray, there would be no luring her back. How might he facilitate that? Druella would be blamed. Mothers always were.

Narcissa, the only one with Druella’s colouring, clearly was dying to hurry over to her mother and cling to her robes.

When Voldemort smiled at the girls and greeted them cordially, Bellatrix became even more enraptured.

Andromeda smiled and curtsied in dutiful waspishness and Narcissa gave into flight and ran behind her mother’s chair.

The air froze, and Voldemort could see Druella was ready to throw herself on the floor for his forgiveness for her daughter. And she would, despite her hate, she would.

The toll of so much dark magic was starting to take its toll on his appearance, he knew. Gone were his disgusting father’s features, his skin had taken on a waxy quality and his eyes were now a piercing red. But his magic was much more powerful. He dominated a room by presence alone. And darling Bella? Bella felt that, and with all that Black instability and Druella’s desire for war in her blood, she was infatuated even at ten.

Hero worship.

Perfect.

Lord Voldemort waved his hand congenially, and Cygnus gave a strained smile, taking little Narcissa by her hand and taking her gently out of the room.

Andromeda followed without a word.

Bellatrix dragged her feet, big mournful black eyes casting glances back at him several times as she went. Druella was white about the mouth. Lord Voldemort wondered if she would crack a tooth from clenching them so hard.

Cygnus gave his cause generous donations. Druella with her crooked fingers, had long learned the lesson about speaking her mind to Lord Voldemort.

Bellatrix came to him when she was still just 16, begged to be allowed to serve, to kiss the hem of his robes, be his most loyal servant. And who was he to refuse her?

Who, after all was Lord Voldemort, to stand in the way of progress? It was the swinging sixties for the muggles. If their women want to act like whores, who was he to not unleash a vengeful goddess in return?

He wouldn’t mark her until she left Hogwarts though, mostly because he knew she would not be able to keep it hidden. She hadn’t even received her NEWT results and he sent her home to her mother with a branded arm, pupils blown wide.

From stolen snippets of her memories as he taught her Occlumency, he witnessed her mother’s rage and despair.

Voldemort taught dear Bella personally, made her love him. Like he always planned. And for all the female teenage histrionics (she did not want to marry, she wanted to fight for him and him alone), she was a phenomenal pupil. Druella’s brilliance made for his use. She made his male Death Eaters look foolish, bumbling simpletons.

He paid Bella a home visit after her eighteenth birthday, Druella feigned ill almost immediately and wished to retire.

Dear Bella would be married in the next couple of weeks and really, Druella should not leave her alone without a chaperone. But at last, she knew, she could not stop what Lord Voldemort wanted.

Bella did not want to be married, despite knowing it was a good match and she got along with Rodolphus. When Voldemort reminded Bella of this, how she wilted at his censure.

Druella was disgusted. Her hand lingered on the door frame, worried for her rebellious, fearsome daughter alone with the Dark Lord. She did not linger long, but Voldemort caught her crooked fingers, still unable to be perfectly set after all this time.

He offered Bella a boon, a prize for her loyal service. A way for her to help her Lord’s plans.

Long ago, Tom knew where Druella would pretend to be asleep. Things do not change in a pure-blood marriage. Now Lord Voldemort knew more magic than any other alive, more than any House of Black can withstand.

He unravelled the wards, brought Druella’s room down to its basic thin muggle walls and then fucked Bellatrix loudly. So silly, to keep her daughter so close to her own chamber. The beds in any pure-blood household are old and sturdy, and there’s a deep satisfaction in knowing that even through the headboard slamming against the wall, Bellatrix can still be heard by her mother.

When all was said and done, Voldemort considered it an act of politeness to bid goodbye to the mistress of the house. It would have been such a crude mudblood thing to wipe his cock on the curtains, though he was tempted to just to spite the harpy that was matriarch of this subunit.

He took Druella’s broken hand and kissed the back of it. She flinched at him.

She lost her fear in that moment of blackened hatred. “Send in my daughter,” she rasped.

How she _hated_ him. How she hated that Bella loved him more than her. That he could sodomise her daughter on the floor of the Wizengamot, if he so chose, and Bella would still look at him like he had hung the moon and the stars.

“If you wish, but it would do you well to remember she is mine to punish. She has served her lord well tonight.” A gentle squeeze of those aching bones.

Lord Voldemort would indulge her order only once.

He had won after all.

And what was the real harm? Bella’s new husband would be grateful to be in the places only Lord Voldemort had been. And what satisfaction it was to send the smell of himself on Bella’s breath back to her pretentious mother.

Lord Voldemort got what he wanted, he always had.

Lord Voldemort always shaped the narrative.

His thoughts returned to the boy; this boy so willing to die for Dumbledore. For Sirius Black. For anyone.

Just to spite Lord Voldemort.

And the Dark Lord thought of his past, of the way he’d broken Druella, who had shortly gone to her grave after he screwed her beloved firstborn.

If Harry Potter was so keen to martyr himself, then he would martyr himself for Lord Voldemort’s campaign.

And so, Voldemort commissioned a portrait.

***

It was little known that before becoming a reluctant Death Eater, Peter Pettigrew wanted to be an artist.

He had wanted to be a well thought of painter, who would make beautiful portraits of all the best families.

It was him that Lord Voldemort set upon this heavy task.

Paint Harry Potter.

Paint him how he should have been had he not been torn from his parents so young. If he had evidently not denied his heritage and raised amongst cattle.

Pettigrew, who knew Lily and James Potter, knew Harry for three years whilst sharing a dorm with him, for once would be glad to be a given a task he could complete well without fearing the Dark Lord.

Snatches of more recent memories and photos were used to compose a requisite sketch. Again and again, Voldemort made Wormtail draw Potter until he looked perfect.

And eventually Lord Voldemort acquiesced for Peter to begin.

He summoned a seer to speak with him in Malfoy Manor, had her ushered into one of the fine saloons that the Malfoy’s had.

Seers had caused him many troubles over the years, but this one he knew.

The light flooding in the large windows did not do either of them any favours. She had aged poorly, her once light blonde hair now grey. Wrinkles clung to her face in a way he had never pictured for her. But her eyes, now slightly milky, were still a cutting and clear blue.

A Trelawney in blood but not in name.

She barely held in a flinch at seeing him, bracing her hands against the back of the free chair. He would not stand to pull it out for her.

“Mrs—"

“I do not go by my married name,” she interrupted him, and only for the fact they were alone did Voldemort allow it to slide.

In fact, he felt the smallest sliver of a smile creep along the edges of his lips.

“As always, you are rude, Burke,” he responded. “It is rather amazing your line has turned out as docile as it has.”

The woman settled across from him with a scoff, “My granddaughter is much like her father, and seeing my daughter die from her experiments has only furthered that.” She looked at the teacups, “But you did not bring me here to talk about my family.”

“No.”

“Good.”

Voldemort smirked, he always reluctantly liked her. She had been the same at school when she was partnered with him in Divination, during fifth year.

Burke (as she preferred to be known) had snatched up his teacup with a sharp snap, her family rings cracking against the delicate china, “There’s blood on your robes, Riddle,” she had whispered, blue eyes taking in the cuff of his robe.

Unintentionally, his eyes darted down to inspect the material.

They were spotless, Tom had checked, three times after completing the deed.

She swirled his cup in idleness, “Looks like a rooster.” She finally hummed salaciously, ignoring his stiffening shoulders.

Burke pulled a face, and flicked out the dregs of his tea, sluicing them down the back of some other Ravenclaw’s robe callously. Fortunately, they didn’t realise.

Pouring another cup, she had grinned at him. “You must drink again for me to get a proper reading.”

Trying for a measured smile, Tome took the cup carefully.

Burke saw through it with cutting ease. “One does not have to be Cassandra to know that your future is littered with gold. I knew it the moment I saw you in the Great Hall.” She poured herself another cup. “Drink,” she demanded. “Let me see your path. I shan’t tell. We will know each other when we’re old.”

Burke had the uncanny sense to know what was true, whether that was genuinely because she was a seer, or because she stated with enough conviction to make it so, he did not know. She had survived thus far.

Currently, she eyed the portrait behind him shrewdly, fingers delicately skirting the saucer of her own cup. “He will make it to 17,” she finally said. “You should make him look older. Darken his eyes, he looks much too innocent. He will see the horrors only you can produce.”

“You flatter me,” the Dark Lord purred, finishing his tea. He swirled the remnants around slowly.

“He does not have his scar.” Her words were weighted carefully, hesitant in a way he had never experienced with her before. For the first time, she could not predict what his response to her words would be.

 _And the Dark Lord will mark him as equal_ …

“He is not worthy to carry my mark.” Was his offhand response.

She cackled, “He is much more than that.” She gestured with her fingers for him to pass her the cup, the veins in the back of her hands reminding him of snakes.

He slid it over mulishly.

“There will be a time when you can’t bear to see him without it.”

Voldemort frowned. “Read, old woman.”

She picked the upturned cup with slow hands, and only begrudgingly turned her attention to the leaves within.

She tilted the cup this way and that, rotating it in increments. Her pace was designed to annoy. She was like her distant cousin with that.

_(Burke would turn an item three times in his hands, rotate it left twice, straighten it. Rotate it right. Hum at it consideringly before offering the lowest price imaginable. “10 galleons. Best I can do.”_

_“—But it’s priceless!”)_

Voldemort was patient though, Burke had once promised him gold beyond his wildest dreams, heirlooms returned, if he worked for her family. Though it had taken longer than he had hoped, with too much humiliation playing shop boy, it had given him more than just gold. Founder’s items. Horcruxes. Immortality.

He had longer on this earth than she did. He let her have her meddling fun.

“Will I get what I want?” he eventually asked softly, patience wearing thinner than it used to when they were at school.

Burke set the cup down, “Will my granddaughter be safe?”

Ah, yes. Her granddaughter; so closely associated with his enemy. “She is a pure-blood. If her father stops publishing that blasted paper, I may be inclined to mercy.”

Burke levelled her assessing stare at him, already knowing his actions. “I will speak with him.” Then she picked up the teacup again, some leaves sticking to the delicate china. Looking down with clinical detachment, her grin was rakish and only an echo of her former youth, “You’ll get what you deserve.”

Voldemort smiled.

***

Peter continued work on the portrait, day and night. And only when he was painting did he seem calm and confident in his work.

He felt less contemptable when he was not snivelling at Voldemort’s feet. 

As the portrait took shape, so did the background. The boy had his broom, one of the few things Potter could do staggeringly well. It was propped up against a corner, heavy velveteen drapes in dark red coated the back.

Gryffindor colours.

The next stage was to shape the actual boy himself. It was the height of summer and Voldemort knew Potter was hidden away with next to no contact with the Order. For all the searching, his agents had never been successful finding where Potter was ensconced in the summer, nor where he was raised.

Voldemort would bet that it was in the muggle world.

However, with even less Death Eaters available now than before, it became impossible to pour any efforts into a search.

Not that it mattered, there was no charm nor spell that could truly hide Harry Potter from Lord Voldemort.

Not with the boy dripping his thoughts constantly into the back of Voldemort’s mind.

The boy hated summer. That much was apparent.

His grief for the blood traitor was never ending. It was a drag to be subjected to.

But it meant Potter was alone and vulnerable.

He fed Potter, his darling Harry, the right emotions. He soothed and irritated the connection between them in equal measure.

Kept the boy suspicious of the pain, but enabled him to let his guard down when it stopped.

Pushed him to act arrogant and different in turn, to dull his sympathies for those who had none for him.

There was a _well_ of anger at Dumbledore. _Why didn’t he tell him? Why did he ignore him for a year?_

Voldemort stoked it, like he stoked the rare fire they had at the orphanage. He would take the last of the coal to keep himself warm in winter. If he couldn’t use it, then he would sell it. Money did not keep you warm, but having something someone else didn’t, at their expense, did.

It was so easy, such small little nudges and encouragements and Potter took them all.

So alone and frustrated.

Voldemort felt Potter’s mind bend towards him. Unable to sense the Dark Lord’s from his own when there was no pain, nothing too outrageous to stimulate that horrific self-righteousness the boy possessed.

It was easy to help Harry sneer instead of grimace. To target weaknesses and cross lines verbally when he was truly angry.

All subtle little differences. Just enough that when the cry went out, suspicion would flood in.

 _Yes, my darling, yes. You are right to hate them for belittling you and now they beg for your help_. Voldemort didn’t say it. Did not speak, for the boy knew his voice too well. It would give the game away, but he could flavour the thought with _rightness,_ and it would work.

And in the middle of the night when Harry’s mind unintentionally curled inwards, towards him. He would not wake him; he would soothe his mind.

Pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his head. Think but never say, _you will look so beautiful when I kill you._ If the plan worked, he might not even need to do the deed himself.

***

August was just drawing to a close when Peter announced the portrait was complete.

Peter had done a splendid job, the young, little Potter Heir looked rather well. His cheeks did not look so gaunt, his eyes not haunted. He did not look like the sullen, wretched teen he was, but the wayward son of a small but wealthy house. And that was who he was to be, the son who had been manipulated by Albus Dumbledore.

The boy bore a heavy burden, being made to move against his lord; but he bore it with grace. Much like all wizarding children born to great families.

The brilliance of his green eyes had even been captured.

All in all, it was a beautiful portrait. Almost unworthy for the boy himself, though it’s splendour was worthy to hang even in the great galleries of Malfoy Manor.

It was a gift; a gift beget of sorrow.

A cry for redemption.

“You have done well, Wormtail.”

Peter’s sniffling and grovelling reply came from a distance.

“You need to add his scar.” Voldemort’s fingers traced the air over the paint, admiring his pet project. “Make it faint, only just visible.”

Wormtail said nothing, even though before the Dark Lord had outright forbidden it previously. But now, as Burke had remarked a few weeks ago, it did not seem right for the boy to not have it.

It was quick, almost as quick as the curse itself had been. Peter made it the slightest shade of pink, just different enough from his skin to be noticeable, but not the red raw wound that so often dominated Harry’s face in real life.

The rat-faced man trembled as he awaited Voldemort’s verdict.

“You may leave with Lord Voldemort’s thanks.”

There was a stunned silence, a frozen prey realising the predator was going to let it go. Then more grovelling and the man scurried away. The only thing that lingered in the empty gallery was the smell of thick acrylics and oils as Potter dried on his easel.

Voldemort summoned a chair, settling into it gently and stared in fixation at the portrait. Slightly idealised it may be, but there was not a portrait in the world that wasn’t.

The painting was stretching indolently in his seat, long legs crossed at the ankles as he slouched elegantly, a combination of James Potter’s and Sirius Blacks’ arrogance.

There was something softer in this shape of the jaw, in the smile that was reminiscent of the late Lily Potter, and the eyes were perfect in colour and shape.

The boy’s broom – a firebolt according to all sources – rested against the back of the chair, with a few books gathered behind him.

A joke, that Potter could parade as a scholar, but ahh, the sentimental touch too. For they were photo albums, and the figures were indistinct, but the red hair was not, and the tall figure with hair so like the boy’s own gave it a mournful tinge.

It would have been poetic if Wormtail had had an ounce of cunning in him, if the objects in the portrait had been placed there in anything but misplaced and misguided apology.

A heavy door, partially hidden by a velvet drape linked this portrait to Hogwarts.

The beginning of Lord Voldemort’s plan – or perhaps more aptly, the end. When Potter was ready to be unleashed into the world to bring about his counterpart’s death.

Voldemort sat a little longer. He would begin tomorrow, wearing a friendlier face.

As much as he hated the look of his youth, his serpentine appearance would only frighten and harden Harry’s resolve against him.

Voldemort could be gentle. Harry needed gentle.

His _equal…_ Indeed…

And so, Voldemort fed the portrait with memories of Harry’s voices, his expressions. Just enough to satiate the minimum requirements. To flesh out the behaviours Voldemort had decided on for his new Harry.

He fed it the natural laws of a portrait’s existence, just enough knowledge to solidify this Harry’s beliefs in what was right and what was wrong. Because when Harry believed in something or someone, he would not be shaken from it.

The next day Voldemort would wake him. Voldemort who was so full of death, immortality and stolen blood, that he knew how to violate everything that could and should be.

***

The portraits eyes slowly moved, aching stiff and unyielding as the paint imbibed magic, until everything unleashed. Its mouth moved, neck bending under the pressure of supporting its own head for the first time, the hair tousled in an imaginary breeze.

The youth stretched in his chair with a groan, already moving into a more attentive, guarded position. He rolled his shoulder blades, before catching sight of Tom Riddle standing opposite him, smiling toothlessly and mild.

“Oh,” the portrait said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Harry, do you remember me?”

Distantly, he felt Harry’s mind wake from its slumber miles and miles away, unconsciously bumping against his own. Voldemort settled a barrier of assurance and strength for Harry to bolster himself on. _Hold your head up higher, you do not deserve to be left here. Good boy._

“No? Sorry, should I?” the portrait asked, slightly defensive and unaware of Voldemort’s dallying. Tom’s face held back the smile threatening to break free, one might assume Harry was being belligerent from his tone. Severus would read it as such, but now Voldemort _knew_. Defensive, not aggressive.

Harry was hungry, but not due to withholding his own food in some teenage fit of petulance.

He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t an academic, nor was his father. However, it is hard to much of anything when you were being denied your school belongings.

Harry Potter was not being looked after. Harry Potter might never have been looked after. Why had Dumbledore allowed his chosen armour to rust?

Voldemort let his face fall into a disappointed frown.

“It is as I feared.” He sighed, hand briefly pressed against his eyes, “You never had a chance to teach yourself.” He ran his hand down his face, letting huff of breath. He gave Harry a look of desperate frustration, a feeling the boy knew well. “I have fed you what I can, disjointed and patched together as they are, in hopes to give you a chance.”

“I am dead then?” Portrait Potter asked, aware as all portraits are that he was not a real person.

“I am afraid so,” Voldemort sighed, folding his robe over his crossed knee, “You died in great service to your Lord.” He looked down briefly, swallowing audibly.

“My Lord?” The boy queried.

“Lord Voldemort.” Tom continued, smiling soberly, “He tried to spare you from the lies of Albus Dumbledore, but you became entangled in his web.”

The portrait searched his memories, pensively frowning in an elegant way. The real boy could never have emulated that. “The headmaster?”

“Yes.” A frown stressed enough to cause a crease between his brows, “He was quite involved with you.”

“Involved?” The portrait sat straighter in his chair, gripping the arms.

“Unnaturally interested, at the least.” That wasn’t untrue, the headmaster had indeed spent too much time personally invested in the Boy-Who-Lived. “It was a cause of concern.” It was, but not for the reasons that the portrait was jumping too. Teenagers. “It’s not normal for a headmaster to be so…invested in a singular student.”

“Why was he so interested in me?” The portrait looked troubled.

“He thought you were the answer to his personal war with the Dark Lord.”

“And was I?” it asked, cautiously.

Voldemort smiled depreciatingly, “You just had your sixteenth birthday before you died. You are hardly a match for a Dark Lord.” Despite the palpable relief that he hadn’t been fighting the Dark Lord, the teenager still managed to look a little offended. “Your bravery was unmatched, but you shouldn’t be a soldier at your age.” Voldemort scolded.

Voldemort had given the portrait enough of Harry to know that praise from an adult who cared about him was scare, and he could see that his careful selection and wording had paid off. A slight blush crept across Harry’s face, and he squirmed uncomfortably.

“So, who are you?” Harry asked, “You are not in any of the memories.” He sounded challenging now. “Are we related?”

_Oh, more than you will ever know._

But Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort shared more than distant relatives. They shared blood, and thoughts, memories and--

Voldemort smiled. “No, you do not know me. Not well, at least. Though I am sure we are related to some degree, as all old families are.” He sat forward, ensuring to make himself look grave, “But I am on your side. I want to help you. I thought very highly of you when you were alive.”

Harry mirrored him, sitting forward. “How will you help me? I am only a portrait. I think I have enough to function as I’m meant to.”

“Oh, but my young friend, you must do something more than that,” Voldemort said. “You will be as fine a portrait as any other, and more importantly, you can help with a task of great importance.”

“Oh?” Interest brightened his features. Harry was always keen to be of use, “How can I do that?”

“Your portrait was painted by an old school friend your Godfather’s – Sirius Black. You remember him? I regrettably never met the man myself.” All technically true, though Voldemort had heard Bella and him cackling at each other across a battlefield a fair few times. “I believe you called him Padfoot, or Snuffles, if you thought your letters might be intercepted. He was an escaped convict. He was innocent however, and the only close family you still had left. He would be disgusted by what has happened.”

Harry looked deeply sad, his grief genuine and pain only a shadow of what his real-self was feeling. “What has happened?”

“My dear, little Potter, you know the natural laws as well as I do. You cannot be alive and be here at the same time.” Voldemort slid even further forward in his chair, the velvet cushion catching the material of his robes irritatingly. This was it. This was Druella’s fingers breaking all over again. “Someone has stolen your body and is pretending to be you,” He confessed, watching the furious indignation flare in Potter’s poisonous eyes. It really was _too_ easy. “We must expose them.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if this story has legs or if I will continue it, but every time I say I'm not going to continue something, I always end up writing more. 
> 
> Would love to hear your feedback :) Keep safe everyone!


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